Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Naum Vaiman

And he chuckled. “And you know what,” he resumed, getting somewhat misty-eyed, “they must have sensed something in me that I didn’t yet know myself... (On this declaration, as they say, everyone’s hackles were raised.) Another brandy?” We each downed another shot. Lena returned and began to pour the tea. “Wonderful brandy. What berries did you use?” I expressed my curiosity, impersonating an inquisitive owner of an estate. “Aa, this thing is my own invention!” At this, the general perked up. “It’s got gooseberries, and currants, and some other secret ingredients besides!” I triedmybest todrink the teawithanairof sophistication, sip by little sip, being afraid to disgrace myself (my mother’s shriek, “Don’t slurp!” was still ringing in my ears). Being both a Jew and a hereditary proletarian, I felt myself a plebe twice over and experienced a slight dizziness in the presence of powerful people. And here, even the tea service was obviously “not your run of the mill kind,” all hand-painted: some sort of ladies and gentlemen wearing wigs and assuming courtly poses. I imagined the general in such a wig. Deep wrinkles were rippling down his face, reflecting the curls of the wig, but the look in his dark brown eyes was youthful, assertive.

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